


Apéritif

by linguamortua



Series: Twink Brock Rumlow [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Dirty Talk, M/M, Oral Sex, Twink Brock Rumlow, hot power top jack rollins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 06:29:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5118614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘It’s my birthday,’ Jack said, resting his hands on the counter on either side of Brock and bracketing him, caging him in. ‘I can do whatever I want.’ His body was radiating heat. Brock could feel it on his back.</i>
</p>
<p>Jack and Brock are going out for dinner. Brock is secretly thrilled about this. Jack takes horrible advantage. You know the drill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apéritif

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mathildia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mathildia/gifts).



> This is a birthday fic for the ever-delightful [Mathildia](http://mathildia.tumblr.com).

‘Can you not,’ asked Brock rhetorically, as Jack pressed up behind him and hustled him against the bathroom counter. They were going out - really out, to a place for food, together - and Brock wanted to look good. His black jeans were fitted, the cuffs rolled up by an inch to just above his ankle bones. He had a pair of box-fresh Adidas sneakers downstairs, black with the white flashes on the outside, and a dark grey polo shirt that he knew looked good, so sleek and soft with crisp white bands on the arms. He found it hard to imagine that Jack was going to take him anywhere really good, or really _cool_ , but Jack had told him ‘dress smart, kid’, and Brock could fucking do that. Or at least, he could if Jack stopped getting in the way when he was working on his hair. ‘I mean, like, can you _not_?’

‘Look at you,’ Jack said, grinning at him in the mirror and looking so annoyingly rugged in this way that probably was just natural. His eyes creased up when he smiled; it was hot, in an older guy way - not like _wrinkly_ old, just older. Brock was into it.

‘I’m _trying_ to look at me,’ Brock sniped, ‘but you’re in the way. Can’t you go and read something about trucks or whatever? For like five minutes?’

‘It’s my birthday,’ Jack said, resting his hands on the counter on either side of Brock and bracketing him, caging him in. ‘I can do whatever I want.’ His body was radiating heat. Brock could feel it on his back. This was dangerous, because any minute now Jack was liable to start dirty-talking him just for fun. Brock would rather endure a terrible spray tan than admit that he liked it, but he did, and it wrecked him every time. He had no defenses.

‘You do whatever you want anyway.’

‘Yeah, I do,’ agreed Jack. He leaned in and pressed his face to the nape of Brock’s neck, breath warm. ‘God, you smell good.’

‘Still in my way.’ Brock bent further over the counter to see the mirror properly and did a little more work with the comb.

‘Aw, shit, you can’t just bend over like that.’ Brock felt Jack lean back to look at his ass. ‘Asking for trouble, kid. Asking for it.’

‘Shut _up_ , God.’ Brock tried not to visibly shiver at Jack’s low chuckle and the weight of his hands on Brock’s hips. Jack was already half-hard and Brock was trying very hard not to think about it, or about the way his own body was stirring. He could throw an elbow right now, and Jack would laugh and grab him and wrestle him down onto the floor and then he’d--

‘This is a good shirt.’ Jack’s fingers crept up under the right cuff, ran over his bicep. ‘Showing off your muscles. It’s real cute, kid, it’s real cute.’ Jack’s other hand found Brock’s left arm and he nosed at Brock’s neck, just under his ear. ‘C’mon, drop the comb, come to daddy.’ He tugged Brock backwards against his chest.  

‘That’s so gross,’ said Brock, struggling against Jack’s bearhug. ‘I’m still not calling you daddy.’ He tried to pull away, feeling prickly and put-upon, but already breathing fast and shallow. Jack turned him around, too quickly to resist, and Brock found himself leaning in, pressing his body up against Jack’s. God _damn_ it. One day, Brock told himself, he would be super-cool and aloof and be able to say no to Jack. Not today, though - no, definitely not today as he tipped his face up for a kiss, wanting it without wanting to ask for it.

‘You standing on your tippy-toes, kid?’ Jack asked, smirking like a particularly sociopathic Cheshire cat.

‘No, why would I need to - oh, fuck, you, I’m not short.’

‘You’re a little bit short,’ said Jack, resting his chin on the top of Brock’s head. Brock shoved away.

‘I’m five foot ten and a half. Also, don’t mess my hair up.’

‘Uh huh,’ said Jack, agreeing without really agreeing. He got hold of Brock’s chin in one hand, holding him firmly, seriously. He tilted Brock’s face up and kissed him. It wasn’t hungry like some of his kisses, like the ones right before Brock knew he was going to get fucked real good. It was insistent, though, and warm, and Brock opened his mouth for Jack’s tongue and scrunched two handfuls of Jack’s shirt in his fists. In the back of his mind, he hoped Jack wasn’t going to wear the shirt out; it was kind of gross, black with a peeling white dragon design on one shoulder. It looked like the sort of thing the creepy johns down at the dive clubs at the rough end of town wore - or some washed-up wannabe boxer guy, or something.

‘Ugh,’ Brock said out loud against Jack's lips; it came out muffled and Jack laughed and grabbed a double handful of his ass.

‘Aw, you don't mean that, baby’ he said.

‘It's not you,’ mumbled Brock, letting Jack kiss him some more and feeling all warm under the skin, loose and dizzy. ‘Your shirt is gross.’

‘Ha,’ said Jack, idly pressing his thigh against Brock’s dick, nuzzling at his jaw and neck. ‘Maybe you should pick something out for me, little peacock.’ Brock was totally going to come up with a smart response, something _so cutting_ and brilliant, but when he opened his mouth to try and speak Jack slid his thumb in there. Brock closed his eyes and sucked on it which, he thought hazily, was going to severely escalate the situation. And yet, he heard Jack’s breath catch and felt the hot throb of blood in his own face and throat and cock, and he couldn’t find it in himself to stop.

He made a little sound, somewhere between want and protest.

‘God damn,’ said Jack in a low voice. ‘I know what you want, kid.’ He ran his blunt fingernails up the nape of Brock’s neck and onto his scalp, cupping the back of his head. It took barely any pressure at all, just a hint of a suggestion, before Brock found himself sliding to his knees in the tiny bathroom and fumbling for Jack’s zipper. It was getting dark outside and, down below the level of the frosted window, everything was grey and dusky. It didn’t matter; Brock closed his eyes again. It was as easy as breathing to unzip Jack and let his cock bounce free against Brock's waiting mouth.

Jack tasted like salt and smelled like the ocean and his cock pulsed against Brock’s tongue. Brock lapped at the head a little and brushed his lips down the underside to Jack’s balls, teasing him, showing off. Jack’s hand on his head was heavy but he wasn’t directing Brock; not yet, at least. Brock was free to explore Jack’s skin, nuzzling over him and flicking his tongue against the sensitive spots. He didn’t use his hands - Jack liked it better when Brock had to work for it - and instead he rested them on Jack’s hard thighs, feeling the muscle through the well-worn denim of his jeans.

‘Enough playing,’ said Jack, his voice sounding tight and strained. ‘Suck it.’ Brock flicked his eyes up and made himself look tentative. Not because he was, of course, but because for all that Jack liked him sweating and desperate and eager, he was also susceptible to coy looks and virgin hesitance. He licked his lower lip; Jack took advantage and rubbed his cock on Brock’s tongue. Jack braced his left hand on the counter and let it take some of his weight as he leaned forward, pressing his cock between Brock’s barely-parted lips. He groaned. He liked to watch Brock take it.

Brock shuffled closer on his knees, and tipped his head back. He liked to work at sucking cock - he was good at it, okay? - but when Jack got like this what _he_ wanted was to fuck Brock’s face. There were things Jack reliably liked. Brock knew it from experience and from all the gross porn Jack liked to watch. Slowly but surely, Brock found himself doing them, even if they made him writhe with a kind of hot, exciting shame.

Now that Brock was right up close with his head back, Jack was thrusting into his mouth slowly and letting his cock head nudge against Brock’s throat. Brock let it happen, sneakily folding two fingers into his palm so the nail bit into the skin - the flash of pain let him take it without choking.

‘Make some noise,’ Jack ordered, right on cue. Brock whimpered, half in genuine lust and half because it worked, and he swallowed around Jack’s cock with a wet noise. Jack groaned, so Brock did it again, making a gulping, sucking noise each time Jack’s cock slid down into his throat. He pulled in air through his nose, snuffling through spit. It didn’t take much to let his watering eyes leak down his cheeks. Jack’s hand tightened in his hair. He loved this shit; if it looked degrading and messy Jack would be into it. ‘Yeah, that’s good,’ said Jack, and gritted his teeth as he tugged Brock’s hair back and made him take it all the way down.

Brock was painfully hard; he wanted badly to jerk himself off, but Jack would stop him. And, worse, he didn’t want to mess up his good jeans. A mental picture floated to the top of his mind of him walking into a restaurant with Jack, red-eyed and swollen-lipped with messy hair and stained jeans. Jack would make him do it. Jack would smirk the entire time, too. The thought made him whine in a pleading sort of a way.

Jack didn’t need much more than that, and he rocked his hips down against Brock’s face until he came, clutching at Brock’s hair and calling him a sweet little piece in a way that Brock despised, but frequently jerked off to.

‘Jesus, kid,’ he said. ‘Je- _sus_.’ Brock wiped his chin with the back of his hand and stood up unevenly, his legs feeling staticky and tight. As he stretched out, Jack zipped himself back up and ran his hands through his hair with some gel.

‘Aren’t you going to…?’ Brock gestured lewdly and trailed off and Jack grinned toothily at him.

‘Love to, kid,’ he said, ‘but we don’t have the time. Gotta get moving or we’ll be late.’ He steered Brock to the bedroom and sat him on the end of the bed as he swung open his wardrobe door and peered inside. He pulled out two shirts, almost randomly and held them up.

‘Yeah? No?’

‘The, uh,’ he said, shifting on the bed where Jack had sat him. ‘The green one. And your leather jacket.’ The shirt was the darkest green, almost black, and probably the only thing Jack had that wasn’t totally weird old guy territory. The other shirt was black with a Ducati logo on the chest which: no. Brock watched Jack strip down, muscles playing across his scarred back, and don the shirt and some half-decent jeans. He stamped into the boots he wore when he got his motorcycle out, the ones that meant Brock had to force himself to breathe normally when he saw them, these days. Brock barely had time to try to repair his hair in the mirror before Jack was whistling him downstairs like he was a dog.

Brock was hard in his jeans, and only their tightness was stopping his erection being shamefully obvious when, outside, he swung his leg over the bike. Jack must have known it, and yet he showed no sign that he was about to reciprocate. It was likely, Brock was realising, that Jack intended to keep him like this all evening and then beg to come later. It was the sort of thing he enjoyed. The bike shuddered to life, and Brock shuddered against Jack, holding him around the waist and burying his face into the warm leather between his shoulderblades. At least twice during that journey, he swore Jack revved the bike on purpose, and there had definitely been no call to ride straight over the rough patch of tarmac that made the whole machine vibrate.

Still, it was hard to be mad when they pulled up outside their dinner spot for the night, an Italian place with a red awning, an aura of authenticity and a pleasingly well-dressed clientele.

‘I’m Italian,’ said Brock, hopping off the bike and trying to subtly adjust himself in his pants. ‘Like, actually Italian.’

‘I figured that out,’ Jack asked, brushing one finger under his chin like Brock was a girl in some old-fashioned movie.

‘What’s _that_ supposed to mean?’

‘You shout Italian curses at the TV when the Giants are losing,’ said Jack, in a tone that very clearly added _obviously_ to the end. Brock tossed his head, but he let Jack put a hand on the back of his neck as they headed for the door.

‘Reservation for Rollins,’ Jack said to the hostess, and she clicked away at her computer for a moment.

‘Hm,’ she said, pushing a strand of dark hair out of her face. ‘I'm not seeing you in this time slot. Can you spell the name?’

‘It's R-O-L-L-I-N-S. We're a bit late.’ Jack grinned at Brock in an infuriating way. Brock felt his face start to burn. ‘Had to fix my young friend here a little apéritif at home.’

‘Oh! I have you,’ the hostess said. ‘This way, please.’ She seated them towards the back, at a white-draped table in a little alcove that shielded them from the view of most of the room. Brock wriggled his way into the seat at the back and opened a menu, surreptitiously looking at Jack over the top of it, through his eyelashes. Jack leafed through the pages with one arm slung over the back of the chair, and Brock tried to pick something while watching him read. At length, Brock closed his menu and they ordered - an excess of meat and shrimp for Jack and carbs for Brock, who had no fear of encroaching middle-age.

They were getting to the end of the starters, and Brock was coming down from his antsy arousal when Jack shifted in his seat and placed one boot up on Brock’s chair between his thighs. Brock’s eyes widened and he fumbled the last crust of his garlic bread off the table. Jack smiled at him.

‘So, kid,’ he murmured across the table, pressing his boot slowly into Brock’s cock. Brock couldn’t conceal the breathy sound he made, or the way his legs fell open under the table. ‘Ready for the main course?’


End file.
